The love we share (seems to go nowhere)
by ibuzoo
Summary: Summer is over. She is gone.


**The love we share (seems to go nowhere)**

**Prompt:** Fall

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Modern AU / College AU / Break-up / Tom with a broken heart

**Word count:** 1226

**A/N:** This story exists because I'm a masochist and they can't be happy in every AU. In this one, they just found each other in the wrong universe. By the law of average there had to be one - just this one - where they don't end up together.

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

Summer is over.

She is gone.

_(the scent of cherries still sticks to his pores)_

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

The clinging scent of heavy tobacco lingers in the air and Abraxas needs to fan his hand in front of his eyes, coughs on his way through the living room while blueish smoke dances in different kind of shapes through the atmosphere.

Any light that could possibly brighten the place is blocked by large semi-transparent curtains; the room itself lies vandalised and ravaged to his feet, furnishings are destroyed while a dozen shards of glass cover the wooden floor. A blanket of empty whisky glasses, cigarette ash and two bottles of Chivas Royal Salute covers the table - a dreadful sight and Abraxas wonders when Tom lost his sense of superiority.

_(probably along the way when he lost her weeks ago)_

"Are you alright?", Malfoy asks hesitantly and watches the way Tom sits up, his bare chest heaving rigorous as if every breath is a bugging circumstance that burns through his bronchia and corrodes his lungs. He stays silent and there's something behind his grey eyes that Abraxas can't quite name or grasp, something terribly frantic and berserk that waits to be unleashed and he doesn't want to stand at the receiving end of this attack so he grabs the bottle and pours both of them a glass, pushes one of them in Tom's hands.

He drinks.

They both do.

_(Tom's lips taste still of cherries and no matter how much he tries to camouflage the taste, it still lingers, it still exists)_

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

The sun radiates high and warm on his back and he feels the thin sheet of sweat that gathers in his nape, right under the collar of his bright white polo-shirt. His hand is hidden under the soft creamy flower-printed cotton of Hermione's pleated skirt and he takes pleasure in pinching the delicate flesh of her thighs to hear her voice shriek, to watch her teeth dragging over her under lip to restrain from moaning his name while he sucks at the delicious skin at her neck, nibbles at her pulse that throbs frantically against his teeth and tongue. Lips, flesh, - she constantly tastes like a basket of dark and matured Rainier cherries, succulent and sweet and perfect for him.

Perfect for him.

* * *

><p><strong>iii.<strong>

Autumn comes far too soon and the leaves are falling like toy soldiers one by one as soon as campus life starts again.

They're standing at a circle in front of the building and all of them are talking, laughing - living while Tom watches dead foliage on its way down to wet streets. He turns the cigarette roll absently between his fingers and ignores the way Bellatrix casts worried glances in his direction, ignores when Rabastan tries to invite him in the club and he wonders, shortly, if maybe, in France she thinks about him, if just a tiny fragment of her has at least the decency to remember all the memories she wasted on him.

He doubts she does so he lights his cigarette and inhales deeply.

_(the scent of cherries still clings to his lungs, poisons him, wrestles him slowly to death)_

* * *

><p><strong>iv.<strong>

Maybe they were never meant to be.

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

The sunscreen feels cold and sleek in his hands and he rubs it in circles in her skin, shoulders first and then the back. They sit at some sand-rocks near the beach and she pops dark red cherries in her mouth, licks the juice from her lips, talks to him but her words are a blur, a nebula that he can't explore because his eyes are hypnotised on her mouth, the way she shapes it, the way her teeth drag over the thin layer of stained skin.

He grabs her chin and turns her around, her legs around his abdomen, her tanned hips warm against his stomach and he ravishes her mouth, bites and sucks cherries from her lips.

* * *

><p><strong>vi.<strong>

The leaves fall in all different colours, the whole panoply of autumn that spreads on British streets and Tom watches them, zooms out from the conversation around him, hands clasp warm at the cup of his Pumpkin Spice Latte while he traces the green symbol on the porcelain with his index absently.

"What do you think, Tom?"

His gaze turns towards them and a dozen different pairs of eyes are filled with concern and prejudgement, almost accusing.

He takes a draught of his cup and watches out the window again.

He doesn't answer.

_(even the cinnamon tastes of cherries in the back of his mouth)_

* * *

><p><strong>vii.<strong>

Summer is over.

The smoke curls lazily over his head and he takes another drag on his cigarette, writes hasty notes in his diary while his script rests pointed, abrasive. He covers himself with linen sheets from autumn breezes that wave through his large windows and swirl up the curtains and everything reeks of cherries, contaminates his place because all he sees are dark brown curls and even darker eyes with ruby red lips and cherries, cherries, cherries.

Summer was far too short.

* * *

><p><strong>viii.<strong>

"No," she whispers, the exhaustion clearly audible and she bites at her lips, runs her hand through long wild curls and Tom watches fascinated, almost entranced the way her ruby stained lips shape the words, glisten from saliva in the early summer mornings.

"Sometimes I grow tired when I try to speak to you," she breathes again, shakes her head and there's something glimmering in her eyes, something wet and blurry and Tom reaches out, wants to make it stop but she pushes him away, presses, urges, "I open my mouth but all that spills out is dry dust instead of feelings."

He just splits.

_(the scent of cherries is everywhere)_

* * *

><p><strong>ix.<strong>

"When do you know it's over?", Tom whispers quietly and it strikes him how prosaic his own voice sounds, far too sober and stark without the usual bite or boastful remarks.

It disgusts him.

He watches the twisted branches of bleak trees where all the leaves are gone as if they prepare themselves for the long winter that approaches with fast steps.

Bellatrix stops in her tracks beside him and a filigree hand rests on his shoulder, brushes over the expensive cotton of his Burberry Trenchcoat and when she replies her voice is calm with soft edges, something that cuts through his skin, "When someone stops trying because it no longer works."

_(the bitter taste of cherries still clings between his teeth)_

* * *

><p><strong>x.<strong>

Summer is over.

_(the next summer there's another woman in his bed, the same colour of hair but her curls are not as wild as hers, not as fiery and when she laughs it sounds hollow and far away, "What's your favourite fruit?" she asks and observes with wide brown eyes how he blows smoke between his lips and the succulent taste of something sweet and rich fills his mouth, floods it with a particular nostalgia that brings the memory of hands which traced the veins in his neck and soft breathing in his ear, of lips stained with deep red carmine juices and so he answers, honest with a certain kind of regret in his voice that makes his stomach turn and toss, breathes, "Cherries. I could live a life of nothing but cherries.")_

She is gone.


End file.
